The World Does Not Stop Turning
by Falcrow
Summary: Dean always thought that if he managed to be reincarnated, it would be as someone better than himself. But no, even if his last name's different, he's still just Dean Winchester. (Team Free Will dies with Dick Roman only to be reborn in 1980 of an alternate timeline- Harry Potter's, to be precise) *ADOPTED FROM AkatsukiLover465*
1. Prologue

_**[This is a story I adopted from the lovely AkatsukiLover465, the first four chapters belong to her!]**_

 **Author's Note: So here's one of the new stories I was working on during the hiatus! If you haven't noticed, I'm really into Supernatural crossovers, and I've had this idea bumping around for awhile.**

 **If you've read anything else by me, then you know that I can't promise you a consistent update schedule. Hell, I can't even promise that I won't up and delete this story. But I'm going to try.**

Please leave a review with your thoughts!

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In Dick Roman's final moments (the Leviathan replacement, not the real businessman,) Sam Winchester faces an impossible, split-second decision that could potentially change the entire course of history.

Of course, Same doesn't yet realize this, and he might not ever, but that doesn't make it less life-altering.

Dean's already plunging the bone-of-the-righteous-mortal-bathed-in-the-three-hardest-to-fucking-find-bloods into Dick's throat, and the monster releases a sick, gurgled laugh even with black blood dripping from his nose and neck.

It is then that Sam isn't so much offered his choice as he is _slammed_ with it, something dark stirring in himm that says bad things will happen if he doesn't go to Dean _right now._

Dick's mouth opens wide like a shark's, rows of teeth whirring and tongues whipping through the air. He closes it again, the same filthy smirk on his face. The air pulsates in a staccato heartbeat and Sam looks desperately from the prophet to his brother, at a loss.

He can't leave Kevin. They promised Ms. Tran that they'd protect him after dragging him into all this mess, and he's really just a civilian, prophet or not. He won't be safe if Same leaves him on his own.

But Sam's a Winchester at the end of it all, and Winchesters look out for family first. Dean's blood, and Cas is as good as. He doesn't thing for more than half a second before he's shoving the hilt of Ruby's knife into Kevin's shaking hands and racing the twenty feet to his brother.

He gets there just in time for Dick to explode into black slime and for the room to be enveloped in light.

The bone clatters to the ground and then the three of them, Sam and Dean and Cas, are all gone, and Kevin's standing there with Sam's knife in his hands and the surviving Leviathan wandering the lab halls behind him.

Kevin scrabbles for the bone, wincing as his fingers drag through the dark smear that used to be Dick Roman. He tucks Sam's demon-killing knife into his belt and tried his best to breathe, but he can hear the Chompers in the back talking, confused and disorganized without their leader but still freaking _lethal._

From behind him, a voice, smooth like silk, "Well, we've hit a bit of a snag, haven't we?"

"Crowley."

"Right as always, darling. You are in Advanced Placement, after all."

"Where are they?"

Kevin does his best to sound more confident that he is, but it's hard to cheat the King of Hell.

"Who? Oh, you mean the _Winchesters."_ Crowley says the word 'Winchester' like a swear, something foul and crass, "Not to worry. They're not your problem anymore. The thing about God weapons, well, they've got a bit of a kick. Should put a warning on the box, really."

He snaps his fingers and two of his demon cronies come and grab Kevin by the arms. He tried to pull away, fighting and shouting because he can't afford to be timid with Sam and Dean gone who-knows-where. No matter how hard he struggles, they're too strong for him and eventually he's forced to stand still, his chest heaving.

"I'm sorry, dearest. Them's the breaks." He smiles nastily, "A prophet for a profit."

Crowley snaps his fingers again and Kevin's head swims, vision blurring out as they're teleported to what is likely Crowley's lair.

 _Oh,_ Kevin thinks from a faraway place in his mind, eyes shut tight like if he closes them firmly enough he'll turn invisible. _Oh, God._

 _._

Castiel has fallen before.

He has dropped into oblivion and sunk down into the dirt. Once is more than enough; he knows the feeling well enough to hate it.

Falling feels like punishment for past mistakes and smells like burning feathers.

This isn't falling.

This is _floating._

Everything is dark. It should be oppressive, but it's instead oddly peaceful. His worries for the safety of Heaven and Earth, the fate of the Winchesters and the prophet, all drift away in the blackness, suddenly seeming childishly insignificant in the face of such calm.

Time passes slowly, if at all. It comforts him. Heaven never had any use for time either, preferring to measure everything in matter of Before and After. Before the son of God, and After. Before Lucifer and After.

Before the death of Dick Roman and After.

For the first time in a long while (he does not know how long, nor does he particularly care,) Castiel feels like an angel again.

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Dean Winchester knows what it's like to die.

He really shouldn't, but he does. Dean knows very well the consequences of carelessness, of helping people. Of saving people and saving his baby brother.

The point is, he knows how it feels to have his heart stop beating and feel the slow sensation of air leaving his lungs. And it doesn't feel even a little bit like _this,_ whatever this is.

It's fucking _dark._ Pure blackness, so impossibly void of light that Dean can't see his own hand when it's mere centimeters from his face. It's unsettling and makes him feel sick to his stomach.

Being a hunter, you learn to fear the dark real frickin' fast once you figure out what kind of crap lives there. All kinds of nasties like the dark, like to lurk in crevices and cracks for their unsuspecting prey. Once you've seen a few people get taken by a wendigo or a skinwalker, you start being nervous around forests at night and you avoid dimly lit alleyways even more than before.

Everything is a threat to a hunter.

And here Dean is, vulnerable and unseeing, with no way of knowing if Sam, Cas, and Kevin are all right. He tries to cry out, but his mouth won't work. His jaw is locked shut like he's got tetanus, unable to call for backup or even just to see if his friends made it out of the Levis nest alive.

He's permanently on edge, waiting for something, _anything,_ to jump out at him from the inky black and end him all over again. He waits for the inevitable scrape of claws against his face and for the tearing of teeth through his throat.

He waits.

It doesn't come.

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Same hates the dark.

Something about not being able to see makes him think about a place he _really can't think about,_ about angry shadows cast on walls and slow, devious smirks. Sometimes he thinks he can still feel the phantom sensation of Lucifer's hands rooting around in his chest, digging out what displeased him (be it his heart, lungs, kidneys…) and never, ever letting Sam die.

The dark gives him time to think and to remember.

And he doesn't much want to do either.

The downside of being smart if having your thoughts go a mile a minute, and it's made worse by the sense of timelessness surrounding him. Nothing changes but his mindset. Through it all, everything is constant in the dark.

He has all the time in the world to think on his guilt.

He's left Kevin behind without a second thought. He's just a _kid,_ fresh out of college and torn from his normal life. Sam can relate. He knows the helplessness, the fear, and if he's been thinking clearly he wouldn't have left him without guidance.

And now, Crowley probably has him, or the Leviathan ate him, or-

And he didn't even save _Dean._

Sam didn't succeed at his original goal, which was to protect Dean and Cas, and ended up hurting Kevin (maybe even killing Kevin) in the process.

 _Do not harbor guilt for the prophet, Sam Winchester,_ says the voice of Chuck Shurley in the back of Sam's mind. Maybe it's God guiding him. More likely it's his own delirium. _All will be revealed in time. The Winchester Gospel has not come to a close just yet._

A low chuckle in the dark, then nothing.

It is silent from then on, even Sam's rampaging thoughts are quiet.  
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	2. Beer and Apple Pie

_**[Once again, the first four chapters belong to AkatsukiLover465!]**_

 **Author's Note: Castiel's birthday, April 10th, is National Angel Food Cake Day, and Sam and Dean's, exactly six months later on November 10, is National Sibling Day. Things just sort of happened to work out that way, and I'm really happy that they did.**

 **Also, in case it was unclear, there are two timelines happening, with Harry's moving significantly faster than Supernatural's. WHile years will pass in the wizarding world, it'll only have been weeks in the Supernatural universe.**

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Charles Greengrass, 'Chuck' to his more friendly associates, is happier than he's ever been.

Anastasia sits in the parlor, hands folded over her swollen stomach, the knitting needles clacking off to the side as the yarn knits itself into infant-sized hats. She's got a dreamy kind of smile on her face, serene and tender. She hums quietly to herself, something by the Weird Sisters that he'll tease her for later, but for now he just listens.

He has never loved her more.

Chuck can still remember being six years old and precocious, spoiled proper like a pureblood boy should be. His father had taken him along to a party at one of the many Black family manors to interact with other high-ranking children. Peeking shyly out from behind her mother's skirts was Anastasia, a beauty even at five.

"Father," he had said, with the eager confidence of a child who had found a new toy. He pointed to Anastasia, who burrowed further into her parent's robes at the attention. "I want that one."

Everyone laughed raucously, and Anastasia had a quiet, pleased flush on her cheeks. Her mother had been furious, addressing Chuck primly with high spots of color on her pale cheekbones.

" _Witches,"_ she intoned, " _are not something to be owned, young man."_

Father waved her off and ushered him over to a different room, but Chuck never could wipe the image from his mind of the dark haired girl with bright blue eyes and pink cheeks.

And now? Now they're married and expecting.

Anastasia is just as beautiful as she ever was, if not more so. They're young and in love.

Life is good.  
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Across worlds, women names Mary get married to men named John. It's a universal law, and this instance is no different. John and Mary Smith live a continent and a half from John and Mary Wesson. They do not know each other or even of each other, but they are undeniably connected anyway.

(Once upon a time, there was a man named Dean who had a little brother Sam.)

Both couples discover their respective Mary is pregnant at the same time.

Mary Smith cries because she can finally start a family with the love of her life.

Mary Wesson cried because she is stuck with him.

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Castiel is content to drift in the dark, but he of all creatures know that things do not necessarily stay how he would like them to.

There's a faint light in the darkness, a pinprick against the black canvas. The aura surrounding it is ominous, blood-scented and thick. He hears faint voices in the distance.

 _Blume, another blood-replenishing potion. Quickly!_

 _Damn it all. I think we're losing her._

 _What? What's wrong with her? Let me see her, I need to see her, I have to-_

 _Someone get Greengrass a calming draught._

 _Anastasia? Anastasia!_

The pinprick of light becomes a wide opening, splitting the darkness in half. Everything is too light, too loud, too much. Someone holds him and wipes fluid from his skin, cradling him to their chest like he's a small child.

He feels like a fledgling again, and then it strikes him fully.

He is a newborn. A human newborn.

He is completely, disgustingly mortal, and though he can feel power thrumming through him it is not Grace. It's something else, something new and untamed. Wild.

Castiel wishes suddenly for Dean to be here, to hold him and tell him gruffly to, "roll with it, Cas;" he wants to hear the sound of Sam's breathless laughter; the way the Impala roars, Dean gunning the engine like he's looking to crash.

He lays in the doctor's arms for a long moment and realizes that he will never truly be whole again, with his Grace taken and the Winchesters gone.

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It is October 10, 1979 when Chuck's son is born, a beautiful boy with Anastasia's black hair and piercing blue eyes that seem to look right through him. He doesn't cry, not even a little bit, is so completely silent that Chuck has to wonder if his tiny heart is still beating.

The baby is alive, he finds a moment later, just refusing to cry. It's almost like he's alone entirely, this tiny slip of a child hardly weighing anything in his arms and not releasing a single whimper. It's like he's been left alone in the death and the quiet, not even the baby making enough noise to distract him.

It is also October 10, 1979 when he loses his wife. There's something poetic in that, an old life given for a new one, but it's lost on him, Chuck, who can only feel the crippling loss of Anastasia and distaste for this odd, broken baby.

But he's still the baby that he and Anastasia created, so Chuck holds him close and names him Castiel, and old family name. The name means 'solitude,' and, bitterly, Chuck thinks it suits him.

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Mary Wesson, heavily pregnant and set to burst any day now, stands in front of the bank counter in designer maternity clothes.

The teller reads out the balance of her private account at her request. There's enough money there for her to leave her husband, run off with someone younger and wealthier, move to London and stay there. The thought of such a scandal brings a smile to her red-painted lips, makes something in her flush with heat.

But she's too late, too pregnant and too proud. She'll wait, she decides then. Bide her time, save her money. Leave the baby with John and run as fast and hard as she can.

But not yet.

 _No,_ she thinks, heels clicking on the pavement as she leaves the bank, a hand pressed to her bloated stomach. _Not yet._

Far away from there, in a small house with a big backyard, tucked away in the rural corners of Scotland, just close enough to civilization to have neighbors down the road but not next door, lives Mary Smith.

Her husband, John, is far from doting, but she adores him. He's spent months just building things for the coming baby. A crib, shelves, a changing table, all beautiful and handmade. He really cares about her and their soon-to-come baby boy. (Dean Samuel, she's thinking of naming him. It came to her in a dream and it feels so right that she just _knows._ Dean for her father, and Sam for John's grandmother Samantha.)

John works as an auto mechanic from eight o'clock to six-thirty, and when he comes home his whole face lights up at the sight of her. It makes her feel special, glowy inside, all shy smiles and bashful grins from behind her embroidery.

"You know," he says to her, one night in the living room, "I'm married to a gorgeous woman."

Mary's mouth curves into a stupid smile, dopey like a teenager, "Are you now?" she returns, playing along.

"Mm-hmm. She's blond with the prettiest green eyes you've ever seen," John says emphatically, stooping down to help pull Mary up from her chair. He holds her hands in his and starts to sway side-to-side, following an imaginary melody as he continues, "Freckles across her nose. The sweetest smile this side of Ayr. She'll be a great mother."

"She sounds lovely," she replies, unable to contain her giggles. It's been so long since they've done something this silly and gooey, and she kind of loves it.

"Yeah," John murmurs, dropping a kiss in her hair, "she really is."

He's usually so stoic that it's strange to see him like this, but Mary wouldn't dare change a thing. She is, unlike her counterpart, entirely happy with herself and her life as it is.

It is the most beautiful feeling.

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 _Sam and Dean Winchester's souls are recycled, almost, reborn in an alternate timeline yet retaining their scars, their brokenness, drops of silken-smooth skin scarcely holding them together. Still Heaven sings with their return and the angels rejoice._

They're back, _is murmured from seraphim to seraphim, muttered into the ears of demons and evil things._ It's different, but they're back.

 _Word travels quickly when it's regarding the Winchesters. From somewhere within their cage, Michael and Lucifer are laughing through their screams._

Dean Smith is born exactly an hour before his once-brother, on April 10, 1980. He comes into himself slowly, crushing his eyes shut in the face of such bright light. Eyes closed, he can smell the scent of blood, fresh and sick, dense iron rot that makes his head swim.

 _Sammy,_ he thinks. _Sam always comes first._ He can't remember what happened after Dick Roman, can only recall Sam rushing towards him in a panic, black goo pouring on the floor, and then the horrible, unfathomable dark. _Is Sammy okay? And Cas?_

He tries to call for them, wants to make any noise, anything. He opens his mouth wide and attempts to call Sam's name. It comes out as a shrill, high-pitched scream that startles him so badly he starts to cry.

It's more than a little unnerving. He hadn't wanted to scream, certainly hadn't meant to cry, but that's how it goes down and it leaves Dean confused.

"Shh, baby boy, Mamma's here," a female voice says above, soft and musical, some kind of European accent coating the syllables.

 _Mamma?_

There's some kind of mistake here, Dean is sure. His mom (and he had always called her 'Mom,' never Mamma) is dead and definitely wasn't from anywhere but the good ol' U.S. of A.

He finally manages to open his eyes, and when he does, looking down at him with the largest smile he's ever seen is a woman whose features he's seen most often in a mirror. That's his nose on her face, his freckles, his eyes. Her hair is long and blonde like Mom's was, and he realizes that he's being held.

He's being held like a baby, little enough to fit in her arms.

No, not like a baby.

He is a baby.

What the fuck. It's never easy for him, is it? No solution is ever simple. He should've known ganking the Big Daddy Leviathan would cause problems. Whatever.

(This isn't a 'whatever' situation, and Dean knows it, but the Winchester denial instinct in him runs deep. He stopped being surprised by this shit a long time ago.)

If this lady's his mom now, that means she's also Sammy's mom.

He lets his eyes slide close and wonders if it'll take Sam four years to be born this time, too.  
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	3. Know I Did It Out of Love

_**[Here we are at chapter three! I'll be saying this at the start of all four of the chapters I didn't write, just to be sure you all see it: The first four chapters were written by the talented AkatsukiLover465!]**_

 **In this chapter, we finally start to see Harry's perspective on things! And if you were worried about Kevin, don't be- we'll have an interlude for him in a few chapters so you can see what's been up with him.**

 **Next chapter should be up in a few days! Or weeks! Or, let's be real here, months!**

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On April 10, 1980, Mary Wesson is in labor for ten hours giving birth to the physical manifestation of her mistakes.

(Somewhere back in Scotland, a newborn Dean Feels a sensation like being torn in two, like half of his soul has been ripped away from him when he's only just stitched himself back together. Sam is born to the sound of Dean's screams and his mother's tears.)

Her husband is by her side the whole time, letting her hold onto him even when she ends up digging into his hand with scarlet nails that look more like talons. John is a nice man, a balding, bookish thing with thick glasses and a shy grin. He's very kind to her.

But she deserves better. She's always deserved better.

John owns a dusty little bookstore in the corner of town where all the antique shops stay, and he makes just enough money to get them by. He's not attractive by any definition, certainly not her's, but she'd slept with him during a night of drunken carelessness and he'd had awfully strong swimmers.

Her hag of a mother had screamed about the shame of it until her wedding day, and even then she'd made unseemly comments about the baby bump under Mary's gown and made her daughter sob through her own vows.

Samuel Dean Wesson is born an hour after Dean Samuel Smith, and when he finally is born and Mary's holding him in her arms, she says to John, drugged-up and careless, "I'm moving to London, John. I hate it here, in this podunk little town. I want to go to London."

"All right," he replies, voice quiet like if he raises it at all she'll spook and run like a frightened horse. He gives her hand a squeeze, looks at Sam, cradled against her chest, then smiles impossibly wide, "We'll move to London."

That sobers her back up real quick, and she feels her heart drop to somewhere around her feet because that really isn't what she's meant at all.

It's too late to correct him, though.

It's always too late.

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When Sam comes to, it's to that alcohol antiseptic smell that belongs to hospitals and infermaries, mixed with the smell of blood that coats him everywhere, metallic on his tongue.

So Dick Roman went wrong, he supposes. Not the first time he's been in a hunt-induced coma. That, at least, explains the darkness that he'd been forced to endure for a veritable eternity.

Eyes straining as he cracks them open, he tries to find Dean, expects to see him at his bedside, or maybe injured himself, in the bed across from his. He doesn't see any of that. What he sees makes his heart nearly stop.

It's a man and woman, the man smiling big and expectant.

"Just _look_ at him, Mary," the man breathes, "He's _gorgeous."_

There's a weight underneath Sam that shifts with the man's words. Sam tries to turn his head to see what it is, but he's got on a neck brace or something that's constricting around his throat and not letting him look to the side.

"Did-did you ever think we'd have something so beautiful? He's _gorgeous,"_ he says again, voice soft. Reverent. The indication of ownership isn't lost on Sam, either.

Um, okay, creepy dude. Same knows he's attractive, but this is more than a little odd, and odd is dangerous when you're a Winchester. Instinctively he starts to struggle, attempting to push himself up and away; he's got a knife in with his clothes, wherever they are, if only his fucking _arms would work-_

"I can see that, John," the woman snaps, looking at Sam like he's the dog shit she stepped in on her way to Saks Fifth Avenue and had to scrape off her Prada heels. She's beautiful in an angular, jagged sort of way. A kind of sharp-eyed mean pretty that looks like it would cut you if you got too close.

He hates that their names are John and Mary. It's weird not-quite-coincidence that makes Sam massively uncomfortable. _Why can't he move?_

Finally, the weight below him pushes him upwards, tilting his head down slightly. He looks down at himself, wondering what the hell his problem is, when he realizes that he is no longer six foot four. In fact, he'd be lucky to measure a whole eighteen inches.

He's a baby. And he's not laying in the bed alone. He's in Mary's lap, wrapped up like a burrito in a hospital-issue baby blanket.

Well. Now John's comment makes more sense.

But how did he get here? He can't possibly have fucked up _that_ badly, could he? Maybe he's dead. Maybe this is where you go after you've been to Hell and to Heaven one time too many. Maybe this is a form of Winchester limbo, reliving the same shitstorm over and over and over.

Then John scoops him up and holds him close, too close for comfort, rocking him back-and-forth, back-and-forth...

At first Sam can't even think of falling asleep. These are strangers, potentially dangerous strangers, and he's not only unarmed but also a helpless baby. But then his brain catches up to his body and he feels so tired suddenly.

Sam tries to stay awake. Really, he does.

Things don't always work out how Sam wants them to.

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Months pass in boredom, a timeless mass of food and sleep and crying.

At first Dean refuses to drink out of a baby bottle. He turns his head whenever it's offered, closing his mouth in silent defiance. But he gets hungrier and weaker and eventually he swallows his pride and takes the rubber nipple into his mouth. Mary gently guides his little hands to clutch at the bottle and Dean latches on eagerly, glad to have any possible control of this humiliating situation.

He drinks formula for a long time. It should be too sweet for him, but he likes the taste of it, and starts to think of it like a milkshake even when the powder sludge at the bottom of the bottle seeps into his mouth, thick and grainy.

Days go by with him doing nothing but drinking and sleeping. He longs for the ability to move on his own again; he'd never thought he'd miss being able to walk so desperately.

Eventually they move him up to pureed things, bananas and peas and other rabbit food that shouldn't be eaten whole, much less in some vile smoothie. It tastes disgusting and Dean makes a point to spit it out in John's face at any available opportunity.

Always John, not Mary. Mary Smith kind of reminds him of Mary Winchester, and it's hard to purposefully puke on your mother, so Dean settles for making and indignant face and choking the so-called food down.

John's kind of a hardass, though, so Dean makes a game out of how many colors of baby food he can turn John's stupid jean jacket. So far he's only managed to get orange, green, and purple on there all at once, but he's got time.

He's got a lot of stuff, now.

Dean's just a baby but he already has all these new things to match his new life.

His own bed, toys, clothes, diapers (and isn't _that_ the worst thing, to shit yourself uncontrollably except this time it's in front of strangers and you're self-aware enough to be embarrassed,) and enough food, gross as it is, to make sure he's never hungry.

He doesn't give much weight to it all, though. Sammy is the only possession he's ever really had, the only thing he's ever wanted to be proud of and show off to people and hold close to him (besides Cas, but that's a whole 'nother can of sadness worms that Dean doesn't exactly want to open right now.)

But Sam isn't here, and he's not about to be replaced by a stuffed dog his new parents bought him and are insisting he call 'Spike.'

Mary puts the dog next to Dean in his crib, tucking it into his side lovingly.

Dean makes a show of cuddling the thing, and the moment she leaves he pushes it through the bars of his crib to the floor.

"Take that," he tries to tell the dog, but his vocal cords haven't caught up to his brain yet, so it comes out, "Fakthphh pat."

Close enough.

John comes into his room a few hours later and plops the dog right back in his crib. Dean grumbles as loudly and as angrily as he can, but John just mocks him, making an angry rumbly noise back and then leaving the nursery.

Fuck you, dude. Fuck this.

Fuck your food and fuck this damn dog.

 _Being a baby really, really sucks._

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Sam has been in this strange fake life, not Heaven but not Hell either, for sixteen months when he can finally train his mouth to make words.

"Dean," he forces out in the silence of his nursery, and smiles to himself.

It's his first real word.

After that, he talks all the time, babbling out as many words that he can think of that might fit in his toddler-sized mouth. He tries for bigger words, really he does, but he can only get a few syllables out before he's tripping over all the consonant sounds, his 'n's and his 'm's getting mixed up until it's incomprehensible.

He does it partly because he's dead anyway, and it doesn't matter what he does in this weird limbo. He might as well make the most of his time here.

And he does it partly because whenever he says a word right John smiles so brightly it could make the sun seem dim.

"Book," Sam says as plainly as he can, pointing to the tome his father is holding.

John gawps at him for a second, mouth opening and closing as he tries to pick his jaw up off the floor. Then he's laughing , a shocked, delighted noise that makes something warm bloom in Sam's chest.

"Yes!" John grins, picking Sam up and twirling him around the living room, "So clever! So so so _smart,_ Sammy!"

"'Mart," Sam tries. John's grin broadens.

"Let's go tell your mom what you said, huh, tiger? Let's go."

Mary's on the phone when they get to her, and makes an unimpressed noise when Sam exclaims, "Book!" She goes back to her call, twining the long phone cord around her fingers as she talks to her friend. God, Sam'd forgotten that no one had cell phones in the eighties.

"That's all right," John murmurs into Sam's hair. He bounces Sam on his hip on their way back to the living room, repeating himself until Sam is nearly certain that it's not actually all right, "She's just busy lately, that's all."

If Sam could snort, he would.

 _Busy, my ass._

He knows what an excuse sounds like, being a hunter's kid and all. Sam's real dad made more excuses for himself than probably anyone else in existence, and the ones that he didn't make, Dean did for him.

What Sam's learned in these past sixteen months is that he likes John Wesson a lot more than he liked John Winchester. Of course, he loved John Winchester a lot more, but there's a significant difference between loving someone and liking them.

John Wesson is the kind of man who reads Sam bedtime stories and makes him mac n' cheese and does all the stuff that Dean used to do only it's different because John is his dad. It's odd to have a Dad and not a Sir.

He doesn't have a Dean, but he considers that a temporary situation. Even if he's dead, he'll find Dean. Either they'll walk on the road to each other like that one time in Heaven, or they'll pull each other out like all the times in Hell.

He still doesn't have a mom.

She's alive but not around. She hangs out with rich guys in country clubs and plays tennis with her pretentious friends before going out for brunch in artsy cafés.

Mary Wesson is... kind of a bitch. But he'd known that the moment he'd met her and she'd given him that condescending look that a baby should never be faced with.

But she's so young, almost ten years younger than Sam was before he got de-aged, only a few years older than Kevin, and it's hard to blame her for not wanting to give up her whole life for a kid.

It's not her fault that he's not a real kid and he can call her on her bullshit.

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Lily Potter née Evans' son is a year and two months old today. Normally they wouldn't throw a birthday party so late, but the Marauders have all gotten together recently and needed something to celebrate. Besides, it's not as though Harry will remember it anyway, and they needed a spot of light in all the darkness that's been around lately.

They've been in hiding for months now, only daring to share their location with the Order, and even then it's been kept from a few select members. They deserve happiness, today. Voldemort is after them, yes, but he will not crush their spirits.

Lily lets herself smile as she floats the birthday cake down to her son, who claps his hands together in delight before plunging his hands into the frosting. Harry squishes the pink buttercream between his fingers and starts to rub it on his own face, transfixed.

"Just like you Da, eh?" Lily laughs, already wiping the mess from Harry's face with a wave of her wand, "He likes sweets, too. Maybe a bit too much. He's getting a bit of a gut on him."

"Hey!" James exclaims from the next room, where he'd been chatting with Moony and Wormtail, "I heard that, woman!"

"I hope you did! I can't have you going deaf this early on in our marriage. I have enough trouble with you, already!" She teases back, snickering at James' dramatic pout.

James opens his mouth to retort, but is interrupted by Harry's delighted squeal of, "Puppy!"

Sirius has shifted to his animal form, trotting around Harry's highchair and pretending to nip at the boy's dangling heels. Harry giggles uncontrollably, still up to his elbows in icing, and starts trying to reach down to pet Sirius, laughing harder when Sirius starts licking the frosting off of his fingers.

Everyone laughs when Sirius phases back and ends up with a combination of cake frosting and Harry's slobber in his hair where the baby'd been petting him.

Everything about this moment is _family._

Lily wants to put this instant of time in a bottle and keep it forever.

.


	4. The Road So Far

_**[Here's the last chapter written by the original author, AkatsukiLover465! Also, I've crossposted this to Ao3 under the same username as here, Falcrow, if you guys would rather read it on there!]**_

 **Author's Note: There's a long exposition, kids, but we'll get there in time, I promise. Also be ready for some minor timeskips.**

 **I'm taking requests for someone to pair Sam with, since I've already got Destiel established and I feel guilty about leaving Sam alone. I'll take het or slash, it makes no difference to me. I don't have to pair Sam with anyone at all- it's all up to you guys.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I don't know anything about Scotland**

* * *

.

.

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Castiel can feel it within him the moment their souls are lost.

He doesn't know who they are, but knows that there are two of them, and that they weren't soulmates but they might as well have been (that realization loosens the knot wound tight in his chest, reassurance that it's not Sam and Dean who've been taken from him). He also knows that they have an infant son.

The son is... damaged, now. He bears a piece of something evil, whoever he is.

 _The boy with the demon blood_

Castiel finds out from his father reading the newspaper out loud that it's Lily and James Potter, murdered by the Killing Curse (a wizard thing- he's a wizard now, just when he's started to learn how to be human), but their son Harry survived it. A miracle, they're calling it.

It's not like any miracle Castiel's ever known. Miracles come without consequence, a gift meant only for love and joy.

This, he thinks with a small frown, is more like a deal.

(Crowley's voice, purring in the night. _Hello, boys. Squirrel, Moose... Feathers.)_

The boy wears a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead, and only Castiel knows the darkness trapped inside it.

.

Sam gets mad at his new mother. Of course he does. She's the special kind of bitch that hires someone to paint her too-long nails red and file them to points, who color coordinated her entire outfit to match, even if the clothes cost more than their rent.

But he's never gotten furious with her the way he used to with Dad, hasn't felt so angry that his skin crawls with it, bubbling up and spilling over like a pot set to boil.

That changes soon enough.

In the summer before Sam starts kindergarten, his family moves to Scotland.

His parents fight about it a lot.

Same hates listening to them. It's like hearing himself yell at Dad all those years ago. He hates moving, too. But they don't ask his opinion, and they don't care about the volume of their shouting, either. Mary's voice cuts shrilly through the thin walls of their house at night, John's steady boom following shortly after. He sleeps fitfully and always wakes up tired.

They're still fighting on the drive to the airport, with Sam in the backseat pretending like it's Dean driving him somewhere and there's music blasting through the speakers and that no one is yelling anything, at all.

"London, John! _London!_ I said I wanted to go to _London!"_

"And Scotland isn't better than London? London is polluted and loud, Mary. Think about what it would be like for Sam. It's better for him to grow up somewhere like this, where the air is clean and everything's quiet."

"Don't you know _anything?_ I _wanted_ that. I like loud, I like cities, I like knowing that I'm not completely alone! My _friends,_ John! What about my friends? Did you ever think of that?"

Christ, it's like watching a soap opera. Doctor Sexy but with worse acting and less fucking (and thank God for that).

"I think," John says quietly, "That we're moving to Scotland, because it'll be good for Sam, and I think you're going to be quiet and let our son sleep."

That is, shockingly, the end of it. Mary goes silent, curling in on herself. When she turns her head, Sam can see wet streaks cutting through her makeup and her eyes going puffy.

He's surprised that he doesn't care.

.

Mary Smith is nervous, but hiding it well, behind a plate of cookies and a plastered-on smile.

"Do you want to come with me to meet the new neighbors, Dean?"

Dean shrugs a shoulder, not bothering with a verbal reply.

He rarely does.

Mary still remembers the incident with the babysitter a few months ago. Katherine had been a nice girl, really, but she'd not understood Dean's ways in the slightest. Not very many people do.

 _"Money is on the table, if you want to order takeaway," She says, fastening on her earrings while simultaneously straightening the kitchen and also spraying herself with perfume._

 _It's a superpower exclusive to parents, she thinks, to be able to effectively multi-task while in such a hurry._

 _Mary looks over to the living room couch, where Dean is sitting quietly, staring off into space the way he sometimes does._

 _He's got that Thousand-Yard Stare John talks about marines having. It's unsettling, but the family therapist said it wasn't anything to worry about- at least, that's what he said as soon as he actually managed to talk to Dean. Dean, who could charm a cat out of a tree even at four years old. Dean, who managed to manipulate a trained professional into thinking he's just a normal little boy._

 _No, her Dean is special. Extraordinary and beautiful for it. But she worries._

 _Katherine, the babysitter, is trying to get him to talk to her. She asks him how his day has been, if he wants to color._

 _Dean keeps staring at a fixed spot on the wallpaper._

 _Intrigued, Katherine looks too, trying to see what's got him so fascinated. But there's nothing there._

 _There never is._

 _She sidles up to Mary just as she and John are about to leave for their date._

 _"What's wrong with him?" she whispers, voice soft but not soft enough. Ears like a hawk, her boy._

 _If Mary's smile tightens uncomfortably at the corners, Katherine doesn't notice._

 _"Nothing's_ wrong _with him, it's just a..." Mary sighs, feels the weight of Dean's oddity heavy on her shoulders, "It's a Quiet Day. Some days he just doesn't feel like talking. He'D rather be alone with his thoughts."_

 _Her smile eases into something more fond._

 _"He's a thoughtful little guy, my Dean."_

 _Katherine looks skeptical, but nods and goes back to Dean's side._

 _She doesn't babysit for them again._

"Come on," she says, voice oozing falce cheer, "it'll be fun. They have a boy your age, too. His name is Sam."

Something in Dean changes at that. SOmething crumbles, falls out, _gives._ He has to clutch at her arm just to keep from crashing to the floor.

"Baby? Are you all right?" Mary's at his side, immediately, worrying over him like a mother should, fussing at his clothes and his hair.

"All right?" She asks again, grabbing his hands in her's.

"I guess that means I have to go," Dean says, a hint of dark humor echoing in his little toddler voice.

"You don't have to if you don't want to, baby."

"Mm-mm," he shakes his head firmly; holds his head up high like a warrior.

 _There's my boy._

"Gotta be there. Gotta see."

Mary's long since given up on trying to understand all the facets of her son, so she just nods and, still holding one of his small hands, takes him down the road to the Wesson's new house.

.

Sam sees the kid through the window, walking with his mom.

He's little, and freckled, with his hair cut the way...

The way De- _hiS brother_ used to have it.

And they're getting closer, close enough to knock on the door, and Sam hides. He doesn't want to face this new kid. Someone might be able to tell that he's not a real four-year-old, and then what?

Then maybe they'd kick him out of this fever dream and he's not sure that he wants that, not so soon. He misses Dean, the way one misses a lost piece of themselves, a bone-deep hurting hunger, but here is special.

There's something pure and clean about being here. Something markedly peaceful and Sam likes it enough to not leave just yet. He just needs a bit more time.

So he hides while his father opens the door and some lady with the thickest Scottish accent Sam's ever heard talks about neighbors and the cookies she brought, and _my name is Mary, would your son like to meet my Dean?_

God.

Sam very nearly trips over himself in his haste to get to the door, and when he makes it there, chest heaving, he locks eyes with the Scottish Mary's little boy and he _knows._

"Dean?" he asks, prays. It sounds less like a name and more like a sob.

Dean's eyes go wide, and hopeful for a moment before easing into a smirk, like he knew it was Sam from the start, "Sammy." And then Sam's surging forward, tugging his big brother into the fiercest hug he's ever given, in either life.

Dean opens his arms,

and takes Sam in.

.

Chuck Greengrass is speaking to Castiel in a low, angry voice, but his words don't register to Castiel as anything but noise.

They're at the house of one of their associates, the Malfoys. Castiel is meant to be playing with his cousin Daphne and the young Head-of-House-to-be, Draco.

Instead he's been sitting in the corner, hands folded in his lap, admiring the bowtruckle patterned wallpaper of Draco's bedroom.

Chuck isn't shouting at him. He doesn't shout, not now, not ever. He draws Castiel close and whispers venomously about the trouble he'll be in when they arrive home again, how he'll be in time-out until he's learned his lesson.

Castiel doesn't care.

He doesn't care because somewhere, two halves of a soul have found each other again, have joined forces once more and the world ripples with their reunion. Castiel knows who it is the way one knows their own brother.

 _Sam and Dean, together forever, Team Free Will. Cas is family. Jerk. Bitch. Saving people, hunting things, the family business. Brothers to the ends of the earth and back again, family don't end in blood._

Everything falls into place, a universal wrong finally finding the strength to right itself.

The Winchesters are back.

 _They're really, truly back._

.

When Dean was three years old (or thirty-five, depending on how you look at it), Mary Smith came into his room with a smile on her face and cans of paint stacked up on a tray in her arms.

"We're painting your room today," she'd said.

Dean'd gathered as much already, of course- he wasn't some stupid kid, but his mother didn't know that yet.

"You can do it however you'd like to, baby," Mary had assured, cracking open the cans and accidentally splattering paint across her dress.

He remembers thinking about how _odd_ that was, to have a room to paint that was all his own.

He's let himself be led over to the now open cans and decided, just to see the look on Mary's face, to dip his whole hand into creamy blue and press it into the wall.

She's laughed when he did, loud and bright, and Dean remembers that as the exact moment he'd started to love her.

The exact moment when she'd stopped being just Mary 2.0 and just became _Mary,_ a woman all her own with a personality to match, and he still never calls her _Mamma_ or _Mommy_ and especially not _Mom,_ but that's how he thinks of her when they're together and guilt isn't threatening to swallow him whole.

His father is...

John Smith is entirely too close to John Winchester for Dean's liking.

John Smith _happens_ to be ex-military, he _happens_ to be a complete hardass, and he _happens_ to have a wife named Mary with the same last name that Dean had years ago in Zachariah's fucked-up alternate universe. All of that adds up to that special Winchester brand of _freaky_ that Dean had been hoping to finally avoid.

And then Mary offers to take him with her to visit the new neighbors.

He isn't down for it at first. He's actually _negative_ down for it, if that's a thing.

But then Mary says the kid's name is Sam, and he has to go. He just has to. He has to know if somehow his little brother has showed up in the acid-trip of a world.

They walk along the road and get to a modest house with a literal white picket fence. It kind of makes Dean want to throw up.

His mom makes idle chatter with the neighbor man for a moment (a man who is, coincidentally, also named John with a wife names Mary, and dresses like a fucking nerd,) and then some kid with shaggy hair that's falling in his eyes scrambles past John through the doorframe and Dean's heart stops dead in his chest.

Dean _knows_ that sweet little face, has known it all his life; has felt it bury itself into his chest and has held it in his hands, promising "Dad'll be back soon, Sammy-baby," but it looks different, now.

Sam's tiny face is still chubby and pink, but his eyes are tired and worn like he's lived a thousand years.

 _And maybe,_ a hopeful voice croons in Dean mind, _he has._

"Dean?" Sam chokes.

The smirk comes to Dean's face easily, fake but still realer than it's been in years.

"Sammy."

Dean can almost feel his soul stitching itself back together as Sam settles in his arms.

.

 **Remember to review and leave a suggestion for the Sam pairing!**

 _ **[Don't actually do that, I've got the results already, it'll be Harry/Sam! It'll probably be a bit before the next chapter, I'm so hyped to start on this!]**_


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